


Some Unspoken Thing

by nightcore



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: But Also!, Fluff, Homophobic Slurs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oh also, Trans Character, Violence, anti-semitic slurs, but not suPER graphic, god just take it i've read over it like 15 times, it's rated t bc of, its ben. because i can
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-01-18 10:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12386040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcore/pseuds/nightcore
Summary: "Stan’s heart was beating faster now -- faster than it ever had. Mortality striking him like a sucker punch; he had felt like he was going to die before, sure, he had felt like he was going to die two minutes ago, but nothing felt as serious as this."Stan finds himself in a dangerous situation with a schoolhouse bully, Ben doesn't know what to do with him, and Bill ends up with some extra baggage. Not that he's complaining.





	1. Stan gets (just a little) Fucked Up

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! This is the first fic I've actually posted in a while so I'm pretty nervous about it uhhhhh (I'm sorry if the characters are a little ooc I've seen both the miniseries and the movie but I'm only about halfway through the book ,,!)
> 
> Also, sorry if there's any grammar/spelling mistakes, I've read over it like 15 times but sometimes I miss one or two because I'm half asleep
> 
> I'm also posting this on my tumblr (polaroidstan) if you wanna read it there/send feedback/whatever! Thanks!!

_ “I’m gonna get you, you fuckin’ fag! I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!” _

Stan shot to the left, ducking under a fallen branch hanging low between trees and positioning himself against the bark of another. He pushed himself to quiet his breathing, ignoring the fire burning in his lungs and the paralyzing waves of nausea that built up in his stomach. His pounding heartbeat in his ears was so loud -- so  _ fucking  _ loud, there was no way Henry and his violent band of ‘friends’ couldn’t hear it. There was no way Stan was getting away this time.

His right cheek began to sting, Stan only now noticing the fresh blood spilling down his face. Hastily, he moved to wipe it off, though the action did nothing other than stain his shirt and spread the blood down to his neck. He cursed to himself, too quiet for anyone to hear. Henry must’ve done more than graze him with that shitty little knife, because you didn’t exactly get this much blood from a papercut.

He listened; desperate for any indicator that the boys had passed, but he could still hear their footsteps, breaking heavy branches and ripping through the underbrush as they searched. He heard someone shout, but his own breathing echoed too loud in his mind to make out a voice, let alone any words it may have said.

_ I’m gonna die here,  _ Stan thought, the panic allowing for intrusive, dangerous words to worm their way up to the surface,  _ I’m gonna die here and they’re gonna find my decaying fucking body three weeks from now, Henry’s fucking name carved into my throat with that shitty fucking pocket knife-- _

Cold, sharp steel to Stan’s neck brought him out of his trance.

“Found ya.” 

Henry’s disgusting smirk was evident in his voice. He grabbed Stan, dirty nails digging into his skin, and jerked him away from his ‘safety’ behind the tree. Henry moved the knife away from his neck, solidifying his grip; the two close enough now for Stan to realize he must’ve eaten fucking onions for breakfast, or maybe something akin to rotting meat. 

“What the hell,” Stan, although doing his best to keep his composure, couldn’t control the way his voice cracked pitifully when he had said ‘hell’, “did I do to you?” He huffed out the last three words, forcing his lungs to inhale through the shockwaves of stabbing pain. Stan made no movement to break out of Henry’s grip, and Henry took that as an invitation to monologue. 

“What did you… what did you do to me?” Henry spoke between raspy laughs, his grip tightening on Stan’s arm, already leaving a mark that would surely become a bruise, whether it was on his living body or his dead one. “Look at you! Have you looked in a fuckin’ mirror?”

Stan’s teeth clenched in reply, wincing slightly at Henry’s nails digging deeper and deeper into his skin; sure now that, in addition to the bruise, they had drawn blood in small crescents along his forearm. He glanced to his left, then to his right, careful not to move too much and risk sending Henry into even more of a fervent rage. 

The other boys hadn’t quite caught up yet, though he gave himself only a few minutes before one maniac multiplied into four. If that were to happen, Stan’s zero percent chance of survival would fall to at least negative fifteen.

Henry was still blabbing but Stan made no effort to listen, the mental power it was taking not to faint and/or vomit right then and there being  _ slightly  _ more of a priority. He heard the word “Jew” several times, “Fag” a few more, but nothing was really calling to his attention. 

Henry, as daft as he is, must’ve noticed this, because he loosened his grip on Stan’s arm, letting go completely after a solid kick was delivered to Stan’s stomach. He fell -- hard, knocking his head against a branch on the ground and almost losing consciousness completely. The deafening heartbeat in his ears was now accompanied by a loud ringing, one similar to the daze of someone shooting a gun when you’ve forgotten to put earmuffs on.

Stan quickly, though struggling with vertigo and his vision blurring, scrambled to a sitting position, his hands slipping on blood that had pooled on the dirty ground when he fell. Henry felt a million times bigger at this angle, more powerful; as if he was a god. A god with a pink leather jacket, a mullet, and his father’s shitty pocket knife, but a god nonetheless. It was as if the light around him was bending to his will -- shrouding Stan in a darkness that he would never escape from. Like a cat staring down at a mouse, it’s small body already tangled in a trap.

Henry flicked the knife open, 

_ click. _

Closed,

_ click. _

Open, 

_ click _ .

Stan’s heart was beating faster now -- faster than it ever had. Mortality striking him like a sucker punch; he had felt like he was going to die before, sure, he had felt like he was going to die two minutes ago, but nothing felt as serious as this. Nothing felt as serious as the danger looming over you, clicking its knife to the beat of some melancholy death ballad as the ringing in your ears became stronger and the blood tracing the skin on the back of your neck was warm and  _ disgusting. _

He closed his eyes. There was nothing else he could do; his body paralyzed by fear and his mind off on tangents he wasn’t conscious enough to understand. He listened as the  _ click, click, click  _ of Henry’s knife approached him, getting closer, closer, until he could feel Henry’s warm breath on his face, until--

“Dammit, fuck!” 

Stan’s eyes shot open, the sudden shout shocking him just enough to bring him back to reality. Henry had recoiled, now at least two feet away, grimy hand holding his temple like he had been shot. Blood had began flowing in between his fingers, following the lines of his knuckles.

Stan didn’t need an invitation. Using the sudden burst of adrenaline and a nearby tree for leverage, he did his best to force himself into a standing position. His bloodied hands slipped across the bark, cutting more gashes into his skin and making what must’ve been milliseconds seem like hours as he dragged himself onto his feet.

He took off in a clumsy run, every muscle in his body begging him to stop through a language Stan felt as if he knew too well: excruciating pain. He jumped over fallen logs and ran straight through bushes, sure he was cutting himself up on thorns but too preoccupied to care. His bloodied shirt was torn now, exposing skin through small slits of fabric.

He ran until his legs wouldn’t move anymore; until he ended up on the side of a road in Derry, heaving breaths through aching lungs, his mind too focused on the idea of being caught to notice the familiar boy sitting just across the way, wide-eyed and terrified. 

In seconds,

(or minutes, if you had asked Ben, who saw a bloodied, terrified Stan run screaming out of the woods and had to spend several moments collecting himself)

hands were on his shoulders and Stan’s voice came out as a hoarse scream, his arms desperately pushing the other boy away but having no real strength to make any difference. Stan was a panicked mass of limbs, desperately fighting to shove the other off of him. As the ringing in his ears quieted down, a voice bled through.

“Stan! It’s me! It’s Ben! Calm down!” It was faint, but he could hear it, and his muscles began to relax. Ben lowered his hands from his shoulders to his arms, trying to stop him from shaking so badly. “I’ve got you, alright? You’re okay.” 

“Ben?” Although he was sure of who it was, the word came out with the cadence of a question. His voice was almost nonexistent, slowly fading along with the adrenaline that had pushed him so far. “...the fuck?”

The last thing he remembers, before his vision faded to black, was Ben’s tense, terrified laughter.


	2. Bill Gets Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill makes the best shot of his life. If not for Richie, it would've been his last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is kind of a filler chapter, sorry!! i needed a way to get the info out there and this was pretty much the only way to do it (the next chapter will be up sooner i promise;;) (AS IN LIKE, LITERALLY A FEW DAYS) (I'M SO SORRY)

It had been a one in a million shot.

Bill had never been very good at aiming in the past. At best, he only managed to hit his target three or four times out of ten. One time he actually managed to shoot it backwards, nabbing himself right in his own eye, which had sent Richie into a laughing fit.  _ “Big Bill, best cowboy in the west, still can’t hit a target fer the life o’ him!”  _ He had missed again, back then, when he swung at Richie jokingly with his fist, sending them both into hysterics.

Despite all that, he managed, this time, to hit his mark. He hadn’t even thought about it -- loading the slingshot in one swift motion and letting the rock fly, elastic snapping against his fingers as it went. It was as if he was watching it through a TV screen, like the hero had just done some impossible feat and in a second, crowds would start gathering, cheering for his heroics. There were no crowds, however, because it was just Bill, Richie, and the Big Bad Villain alone in the woods. Stan, too.

Maybe it was Stan. Maybe it was the way something  _ clicked  _ in his brain when he saw him lying there, like a bloodied mass of limbs. Maybe it was the way he saw him scrambling to get on his feet that set something off; that sent Bill into an automatic mindset -- firing without really knowing what he was doing, like a soldier on the front lines of war.

Everything that happened next felt like a dream. The rock smacked Henry, a direct hit to his forehead. He raised hand up to the wound and shouted something Bill couldn’t hear. Stan struggled, but got himself up and started sprinting. He was getting smaller, and smaller, and Bill almost shouted something at him, before--

“ _ Jesus,  _ Big Bill! We gotta go!” A hand gripped Bill’s wrist, tearing him out of his mental block. He shook his head, spinning on his heels and tripping over his own legs as Richie pulled him around. Richie dragged him between trees and over fallen branches, Bill only taking a few moments to match the rhythm of his sprint. His mind was still foggy, but they eventually settled in the dirt behind a large boulder and Richie put a finger up to his lips, shushing Bill before he could ask any questions.  _ Ironic.  _ Bill stifled a laugh.

They sat for what felt like hours, Richie occupying his hyperactivity by breaking apart fallen leaves with his trembling fingers. Neither were the textbook definition of scared, but they were smart enough to know they should keep their mouths shut. A rare occurrence for Richie, really.

Bill couldn’t stop the way his mind hyperfocused on Stan. There was no reason for him to be out in the woods this late, and yet, there he was, clear as day. Did Henry chase him all the way out here? How far had he been running? He was hurt, sure, but was he hurt badly? Did he need help? Maybe there was nothing he could do, _but_ _he didn’t want Stan to end up like..._

They waited, waited for any sign that Henry’s gang was still there, still looking for them, still lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce on their prey, but nothing came. No voices, no insults, nothing. Bill had a sudden surge of bravery (or stupidity, if you’d prefer to call it that) and peered over the top of the boulder.

The woods were empty. Bowers and his gang had given up their search and left.

He nodded to Richie, who hesitated before standing up.

“You’re sure?” He whispered.

“Ye-yeah. Yeah.” 

Richie paused. Bill could see the gears turning in his head; the way his eyes studied everything in the area, desperate to find something to break the tension. Richie was always there for that, and Bill was thankful for it. He was someone who made them laugh when they felt like they were about to cry. His jokes weren’t even that funny; Bill was sure it was just his charm.

What came out of Richie’s mouth, however, was not a joke. He didn’t say it in a Voice, or choke it half-heartedly through laughter. It was plain, simple, and straight to the point.

“How’d you do that?”

Silence. Bill’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Wuh-what?”

Richie shook his head and waved his arms, incredulous. He let out a scoff and stuttered over his words before shouting; “What d’ya mean  _ what!  _ You bullseyed Bowers from like, a hundred feet away!” Bill let out a breathy laugh. “It was crazy! Impossible! Big Bill, back in the big leagues! Up there with the best of ‘em!”

“Beep beep, Ruh-Richie,” Bill laughed again, “I-I dunno. Muh-maybe I’m just th-that good?” His cheeks flushed a slight shade of pink, embarrassed about the spectacle Richie was creating.

“An hour ago, Bill, and you wouldn’t’ve been able to hit a billboard if you were standin’ right in front of it.”

There was a comfortable silence between the boys for a minute or two. Richie clapped his hands together and spoke up again.

“Anyway! We should probably get back. Doubt the barrens are safe, with assholes like Bowers lurking around. Sorry, Big Bill, I know how much you wanted to splash in shit-water.”

“God, shut up.”

Bill and Richie rode double on Silver the way home. The actual ride was a short one, but it took them _ forever _ to find Bill’s bike. The two had stashed it behind some nearby bushes before the fiasco with Henry, but since they ran, it took them a heated argument and twenty or so minutes before they spotted it.

They took the long way home; not only because Bill had a rotten sense of direction

_ “Duh-don’t act like this isn’t at le-least a little buh-bit your fault, Rich!” _

_ “You’re the one steering, dumbass!” _

but because they were worried that they’d get caught if they wandered the main streets. Bill dropped Richie off at his house and sighed, the thought of Stan’s injuries still fresh in his mind. 

Either way, he was glad he could finally (more or less) relax.

Oh, how he was wrong.

“S-stan? What’re you--”


	3. Stan gets Ben

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanley Uris wakes up in a bathtub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey ! sorry this is late, I got really sick and ended up missing an entire week of school (which, uh, fucking sucks) so I couldn't really do anything with writing. I hope this is okay ! 
> 
> also posted on my tumblr, which is now sedanley instead of polaroidstan !

Stan wakes up.

He feels as if he’s rotting -- warm blood now dry and blotted over every surface, itching and tearing at his skin like it’s _begging_ for him to rip it off. He tries, he does, with quick motions and panicked breaths but he’s left with nothing but his hands grabbing desperately at soft fabric. There’s something there that wasn’t there before, it’s gray, and warm, and Stan feels as if it’s trapping him just as much as if it’s keeping him safe.

He pulls the sleeve of the left arm up, his eyes scanning for any wounds, then he does the same to his right, rubbing his arm where a circle of crescent cuts have made their mark. He sighs, breath still shaking, and acknowledges the fact it’s going to leave a scar before shuffling the fabric back down.

He makes a motion like he’s trying to get up, but it sends shooting pains down both of his legs (and one of his arms) so he ends up scratching the idea. He lets his right hand rest on the side of the bathtub

_(Bathtub? When did he get in a bathtub?)_

as his left goes up to his shoulder, pulling part of the fabric between his thumb and pointer finger and fiddling with it. Closing his eyes, he inhales and exhales slowly, following a pattern Mike taught him a few weeks back -- _something to help with the anxiety_ , he had said.

The pounding in his head returns slowly, clinging onto him like an unwanted guest.

The door opens, and Stan jumps. Ben, with hair stuck up like he’s ran his hand through it one too many times, pushes his way through, arms preoccupied with a pile of neatly folded clothing. He’s too distracted to notice Stan staring, setting the clothing down on the sink before sighing.

“Ben?” Stan’s words come out as nothing more than a whisper, and before Ben has the chance to react, he wraps his left hand in the sleeve of the sweater, stopping himself from subconsciously ripping his own skin off. It was a motion he’d done a thousand times, tangling his fingers with the soft fabric instead of scratching at whatever was bothering him.

Ben flinches at the sound, turning slowly and scrambling for words as if he was face to face with a celebrity. “Oh! Stan -- you’re…! Hi, first of all. Sorry you’re in my bath -- mom would freak out if I put you on the couch, or in my bed, because you’re --”

“Covered in blood?” Stan interrupts, his tone comedic but sharp. The feeling intensifies again, the _sickness,_ but he does his best to push it down; to keep his composure in front of his friend. If Ben had noticed the way Stan’s hand tightened on the side of the bath, he chose to say nothing about it.

“Yeah. I was bringing clothes, so you could shower if you wanted, but,” Ben glanced behind him, frowning at the pile of clothing, “they’re probably gonna be huge on you.”

Stan smiled. “Thanks, Ben,” he paused, looking away and letting out a breathy laugh, “could you… help me up?”

Ben was gentle, but he was strong. He hoisted Stan upwards, taking care not to grab at his palms or elbows, and patted him gently on the shoulders when he knew he could balance on his own.

“Oh, and,” Ben paused, pointing to the cabinet above the sink, “if you need them, there’s some bandages in the medicine cabinet. Some of the long ones that wrap around would probably do better, but all we’ve got are the sticky ones.”

Stan nodded a ‘thank you’ and Ben left the room, closing the door slowly behind him.

He showered, only slightly uncomfortable about using someone else’s toiletries. It was gruesome, he thought, the way the blood washed down with the water and turned everything a warm shade of pink. Bandaging his wounds would probably have to be his next stop, if he didn’t want to lose his mind completely in the next fifteen minutes.

After mulling it over for quite some time, Stan opened the medicine cabinet. He felt like he was intruding, but the need for something to cover his wounds became overwhelming. Besides, Ben said it was okay, so he figured it wasn’t too much trouble.

His eyes skimmed over the products: an unused container of hair gel, prescription pills (most likely for Ben’s mother, though it seemed Eddie had left some pills in case of emergency), several scattered hair ties, etc. Stuck on the top shelf was a yellow, wilted post-it note, swinging in the breeze that drifted through the window; a crude doodle of a heart next to handwriting that said:

 

“ _BEN!_

_Testosterone shot --- 10/23! Don’t forget!_

__Mom”_ _

 

Stan smiled; if he had to pick a favorite person, it would probably be Ben’s mother.

The bandages Ben spoke of were on the bottom shelf, hiding behind a few bottles of painkillers. They were small, but he did his best, applying a few to the gash on his face and several others on his arms & torso. There was only one or two left in the box when he was done, so Stan made a mental note to give Ben some money to make it up to him.

He slipped the shirt on, then the pants, careful to avoid knocking into any bruises. They felt like a tent -- the soft fabric of the shirt flowing just past his hips and the sleeves almost large enough for both of his arms to go through one hole. Despite the slight disadvantage it gave him when it came to movement (he tripped over the ends of the pants more than once), it was probably the best option for his current dilemma. Anything too tight and he would feel his bruises again; like Henry was still there, still gripping on his arm and holding him tight no matter how hard Stan tried to run. He made a quick mental note to thank Ben for that.

Speaking of Ben, there was a hard knock at the door, jerking Stan out of his thoughts.

“Come in.” Stan replied, and Ben opened the door slowly, like he was avoiding making any noise. He gave Stan an uncomfortable smile, tapping his fingers against the door.

“You-- you can’t stay here. That sounds really ominous, but my mom doesn’t exactly know you’re over, and she gets home in... half an hour or so. Bill lives really close, though, if you want me to bike you over there when you’re done. Or I could take you home, I guess.”

Stan didn’t have to think about it.

“Bill’s. I don’t exactly feel like...y’know.”

“Seeing your parents? I get it.” Ben opened the door all the way now, stepping inside and shutting it behind him with a _click._ He moved to Stan’s bloodied clothes, folded neatly and set on the countertop.

“I can wash these, if you want.”

“I, uh, I think they’re destroyed, really. Henry got me pretty good.” Stan laughed, but it was dry and uncomfortable. Ben’s eyebrows furrowed.

“You ok?” _What a loaded question._ “I could--”

“I’m ok, Ben.”

Ben’s eyes hovered over the gash on his cheek, now plastered with several multicolored bandages, “Promise?”

Stan hesitated, but nodded his head nonetheless. “Promise. Let’s go.”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

Ben didn’t believe him at all.


	4. Bill gets Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan finally makes it to Bill's house, and Bill has a (not so) shocking revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG TO GET OUT !! I've been so mentally drained for the past few weeks and I had absolutely NO inspiration. I'm definitely gonna try to get the next chapter out faster! I feel /so/ bad but I'm gonna push myself to make the next few chapters a bit longer to make up for it!
> 
> Send me hate at streddie.tumblr.com now ;-)

“S-Stan, wuh-what’re you -- Stan!” Bill shouted, his bike clattering against the asphalt. His focus has shifted from finally being able to relax to _Stan,_ and how _Stan_ is hurt and _Stan_ needs help because he saw _Stan_ in the woods and he wouldn’t be lying if at least a little part of him really thought _Stan_ was _dead_. Ben is standing next to him, his bike balanced carefully at his side, but Bill’s tunnel vision is already in effect.

He grabs Stan’s shoulders, gently, and makes the motion to steady him, though Stan is standing perfectly on his own. Bill’s eyes wander, looking at the gash on his face, the bruises on his arms, then back at the gash on his face. Stan’s brows are furrowed and he opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off when Ben taps on Bill’s shoulder.

“Bill, he’s alright. He’s not dead, at least.”

“H-Henry. I thought -- I thought Henry -- I thought yuh-you were,” Bill was stuttering over his words worse than he usually did; repeating phrases through breaths he couldn’t seem to get under control.

“I got away,” Stan says, simply, letting his shoulders fall. He pulls one of Bill’s arms off of his own and pats his forearm gently, offering a small smile. Bill smiles back, relaxing a little bit.

“You’re free, right? I can take Stan home, if you’re not,” Ben asked, pulling the boys’ attention over to where he was standing. Bill sighs, pulling his remaining hand off of Stan’s arm and running it through his hair.

“Yuh-yeah. P-parents -- P-parents don’t get huh-home for a wuh-while.”

“Alright,” Ben looked over to Stan, who nodded, and then swung a leg over his bike, climbing onto the seat. “If you need help, call me or Mike, alright?”

“Of course,” Stan replied, balling his hand up in the excess fabric of his tee-shirt.

The boys watched Ben ride away, offering a small wave each time he looked back. They watched him turn down the street, and Bill turned to Stan and offered his hand. Stan took it.

Bill led him through the door and up the stairs, making a right turn when they reached the end of the hallway. To the left was Georgie’s room; a door that hadn’t been opened in a very long time.

Bill’s room was almost completely cleaned -- the result of a random energy burst he had had in the middle of the night -- and any clothes that Bill had left on the floor when he woke up this morning were gingerly kicked under the bed before Stan could see them. He let go of Stan’s hand and motioned for him to sit on the bed.

“Your -- Your -- Your cl-clothes, are th-they o-okay? Are -- are yuh-you,”

“These are Ben’s, Bill.”

“I kn-kn-know, St-stan. Do -- do you wuh-want a juh-jacket?”

“Oh. Sure.”

Bill nodded, letting his eyes linger on Stan for a moment before turning away, moving to his closet. There were a few jackets and flannels hanging up, but he reached for one of his newer, bigger ones. Stan was a little smaller than Bill, comparatively, but Bill got the message when he showed up on Bill’s lawn wearing what he was instead of his normal, form-fitting clothes.

Out the window, Bill could see Silver lying on the road outside, her metal frame shimmering in the sunlight.

He handed Stan the jacket and Stan slipped it on, wincing slightly as he pulled it over his arms. He wrapped his hands in the ends of the sleeves and created little sweater paws. Bill smiled.

“Duh-do you wuh-want something to eat -- eat?”

“No, not really.” Stan looked away from Bill, focusing on the photos on the bedside table. Three framed photos, one of Georgie, one of the losers all together, smiling and laughing, and one of Bill’s parents, Georgie, and Bill, all comfortable and cute in matching sweaters, sat balanced together. Bill hated the last one, but it also made him feel like Georgie was still around. Like he was still laughing in the other room, muffled by the wood of the door instead of the inside of a sewer pipe.

“Oh -- oh.” He moved to sit on the bed, and Stan shifted to let him be more comfortable.

“What huh-happened out there?” Bill could feel Stan’s eyes on him, but he refused to make contact. His hands tightened against the comforter on the bed.

“It’s all kinda fuzzy, but,”

“Wuh-wait, did you -- did you hit your heh-head?”

Stan laughed a little bit, “No, Bill, I don’t think so. I was really running on adrenaline and nothing else the entire time, so that’s why everything’s kind of blurry in my memory.”

“O-oh.”

“Anyway, before I was so rudely interrupted,” Stan shot a glance at Bill, who laughed, “I was gonna say that I was walking down to the park to birdwatch when Henry and his gang caught up to me. I guess things really progressed from there.”

After a few moments of silence, Bill let out a stern “... _Stan_ ,” and Stan got the message.

“He might’ve called me some things. Things I don’t really want to repeat. I might’ve shot back with _other things_ I won’t repeat,” he chuckled, “and that’s when he threw a punch. I got up as fast as I could and I _ran,_ Bill. I ran as fast as my legs would take me. Wasn’t fast enough, I guess. A bad end to an already bad day.”

“Huh,” Bill nodded, watching his feet as they swung underneath him. He knocked his ankles against the sides of the bed, gently, creating a rhythm. He still felt Stan’s eyes on him.

“How did you know?”

“Wuh-what?”

“How did you know I was out there? You said, when Ben and I first rode up, you said _I saw you,_ like you had been there. I didn’t see you anywhere.”

“I was out with -- I was ou-out with Ruh-Richie,” Bill stopped knocking his feet against the bed, “Wuh-we were guh-gonna mess around in the wuh-woods, but th-then I heard you a-and I sorta,”

“Were you the thing that hit Henry?”

“Yuh-yeah.” Bill met Stan’s eyes now. On his face was an expression of fondness, and perhaps a slight blush accented his cheeks, but Bill was still distracted by the cut on his cheek. He hadn’t done a very good job covering it with bandages. They were in a neat little line, but they ended up only covering fifty percent of the wound, give or take. Before Stan could say anything else, Bill stood up. “I’m guh-gonna get yuh-you a buh-better buh-bandage for the cut on your f-fuh-face -- face, ok?”

“Oh. Oh, okay.” Stan looked a little taken aback, and Bill stared at that expression for a little while before nodding and gliding out of the room. He pulled a pack of bandages from his medicine cabinet, this time longer and waterproof. Bill had decided on the waterproof ones because it was sort of like a fun bonus, or something along those lines. When he re-entered the room he waved them in the air, and Stan smiled.

Stan had moved to the back of the bed, propping himself up against the headboard with one leg hanging off the side. Bill made himself a spot next to his chest, sitting comfortably and twisting so he could see his face.

“Huh-here, tuh-take the buh-bandages off, and I’ll p-puh-put -- put, I’ll put this one on fuh-for you.”

Stan nodded and did as he was told, wincing slightly as the adhesive pulled at his skin but taking them off relatively easily. Bill cringed at the sight of the cut, now fully revealed. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, but it was definitely deep, and it travelled from the top of his nose to his cheekbone.

He sighed and took one of the bandages out of the box, peeling the paper off the back and using his free hand to steady Stan’s face, slightly cupping his hand around the boy’s uninjured cheek. Stan tensed a little, but said nothing.

He pressed the adhesive down on either side of the gash, and patted it gently when he was done, removing both his hands from Stan’s (oddly warm, he noticed) face. Stan brought his own hand up and adjusted it a little, but smiled.

“I -- Um -- Thanks, Bill.”

“Nuh-no big deal. The -- the old buh-bandages were buh-buh-bothering me anyway.”

You know, even though Stan was a little (a lot) roughed up, his hair tousled, and his eyes lacking a little of their usual shine, Bill really wanted to kiss him.

_(What?)_

Bill looked away, his attention shifting to the window again. Stan broke the silence first.

“Thanks.”

“Fuh-for what?”

“You saved my life, Bill Denbrough.”

_(You saved my life.)_


End file.
